


signal to the process group

by entanglement



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: M/M, im lovin it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-15 01:07:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4587201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglement/pseuds/entanglement
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>some kind of upper hand</p>
            </blockquote>





	signal to the process group

**Author's Note:**

> post ep 2

"Hey, can I get your order or what?"

Oh. Fuck. How long have I been standing here? I force my gaze down from the menu board to the person in front of me.

"Small fries," I say.

It's so bright in here that I can't help it when my mind wanders to the employees that probably set the design standards in lighting for McDonalds franchisees. It's as if they knew the person behind the counter would, while attempting to upsell my small order to a large, would try to accomplish this in a flat monotone and with a dead look in their eyes. Blind the fucker, they probably said. Shock and awe. It works for me, because before I know it, I'm nodding. Yes. Shit. Just get me out of here and back onto the dark street where the streetlamps barely illuminate the grime that no one bothers to try to scrub away. At least I know where I stand there.

So here I am, halfway home and halfway through the large carton of fries in my hand. It's 2AM and I'd forgotten to eat again, but there's something already sitting heavily in my stomach beside the few handfuls of fries I've shoved down, so the carton ends up in the overflowing trash bin at the corner before I climb the steps to my apartment building.

I guess that something is why this whole thing always happens. Wait. I'm getting ahead of myself again. I'm still wiping off the salt and grease on my jeans when I reach my door and find him standing there, knocking softly.

"Mr. Wellick?" I ask. His name feels odd in my mouth.

Tyrell Wellick, right now, standing in front of my apartment, looks tired in the same way I do. He's smiling, but it's strained by an ache inside of him. The tiny bit of mining I did into his life before wiping my computer told me nothing but the fact that everything he does is performance, but then again, isn't that how everyone maintains a social media presence?

"Elliot," Tyrell says, effectively knocking me out of my head, "I understand it's late, but you seemed to be the type that keeps late hours on the weekend. I was hoping I could speak with you about our meeting."

There's something mesmerizing in his voice that nods my head before I can think it through and I step forward to unlock the door and let the two of us in.

 

-

 

There's no discernable difference between filling up the emptiness left by loneliness or distracting from it.

I offer Tyrell something to drink (he asks me to please call him Tyrell a few times even though I haven't referred to him by any name since we were in the hall), he declines politely once he sees the dingy little kitchen in my studio apartment and then I tune out while he gets to his speech on why I really should reconsider his offer. He's looking around at my apartment, likely trying to figure out why the fuck someone would want to live here when they've got the potential to make millions, because there's an exasperated tone to his voice that tells me more than what he's actually saying. Somehow I work into his plan to climb the corporate ladder, but my lack of any response in words or expression leaves him looking disappointed again.

Obviously he's type to desperately need at least some kind of upper hand so within the hour, I'm on my back in my bed and he's on top of me.  
If it's not meaningful, does it automatically mean I'm just distracting from the loneliness when I let him kiss me? The fact that I think of Shayla sitting in her apartment next door and likely hearing this should mean there's still some lingering emptiness when he murmurs my name against my ear and shoves his hand down the front of my jeans. Fuck. Does it even matter? It probably feels the same either way.

"Never done this," I choke out.

His only reply is a knowing smile. No no no no nonono. This is such a bad idea. It feels like somehow he can leech the data off every storage device inside of my apartment just by being here and the desire to kick him out and fry everything nudges at the edge of my arousal, trying to climb my internal list of processes to the top. No such luck. Tyrell kills it when he sucks at the underside of my jaw and twists his wrist just right and I'm squirming and groaning just like he wants me to be. He even murmurs a soft "good boy" into my ear.

That's not the goal, though. He didn't show up at my shitty apartment just to give me a speech and a handjob. No fucking way.

 

-

 

He doesn't stay the night. Thank god, because immediately after he's out, my anxiety flares and I have to get rid of everything. I consider destroying my backups too and just starting completely new as if Tyrell hovering around them as he talked to me about missed opportunities with Evil Corp corrupted them, but I quell the anxiety with a few gulps from the old bottle of vodka previously forgotten at the back of my freezer and a bump of morphine before getting to work.


End file.
